As the day wore on, and the hour came when he was habitually about, he strolled down to the beach, pretending to pick up shells, or gather sea anemones, as he was wont. The fishermen saluted him respectfully as he passed, and his heart throbbed painfully as he saw, or fancied he saw, a something of compassionate meaning in their faces. “Do they believe, can they think that it is all over, and that I am childless?” thought he. “Do they know that I am desolate?” A pang shot through him at this, that made him grasp his heart with his hand to suppress the agony. He rallied after a minute or so, and walked on. He had just reached the summit of the little bay, when a sort of cheer or cry from those behind, startled him. He turned and saw that the fishermen were gathered in a group upon one of the rocks, all looking and pointing seaward; with seeming indolence of gait, while his anxiety was almost suffocating him, he lounged lazily towards them. “What are the fellows looking at?” said he to the old pilot, who, with some difficulty, had just scrambled down from the rock. “A large lugger, your honour, coming up broad.” “And is a fishing-boat so strange a thing in these waters?” “She’s out of the fishin’ grounds altogether, your honour; for she’s one of the Westport boats. I know her by the dip of her bowsprit.” “And if she is, what does it signify to us?” asked Luttrell, sternly. “Only that she’s bearin’ up for the island, your honour, and it’s not often one of them comes here.” “The seldomer the better,” said Luttrell, gloomily. “When the fellows find there are no grog-shops here, they turn to mischief, break down our fences, lop our trees, and make free with our potatoes. I’ll have to do one of these days what I have so often threatened--warn all these fellows off, and suffer none to land here.” Perhaps the old pilot thought that other and very different feelings might at that moment have had the sway over him, for he looked away, and shook his head mournfully. “She has a flag at the peak,” cried one of the men from the rock. “She has what?” asked Luttrell, impatiently. “She has the half-black, half-white ensign, your honour.” “Your own flag at the peak,” said the pilot. “More of their insolence, I suppose,” said Luttrell; “because they have a hamper or a parcel on board for me, perhaps.” “I don’t think it’s that, Sir,” said the other, moodily. “What is it, then?” cried he, harshly. “‘Tis, maybe, your honour, that they have some news of----” he was going to say “Master Harry,” but the ghastly paleness of Luttrell’s face appalled and stopped him. “News of what, did you say?” “Of the big yawl, Sir; they, maybe, saw her at sea.”